


Counting Miles Away

by blueandbrady



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueandbrady/pseuds/blueandbrady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is away on tour, and Nick doesn't miss him at all. He doesn't. Really. His friends don't know what they're talking about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Miles Away

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this back before the TMH tour started, and I did not even attempt to follow their actual tour dates. This is also not Britpicked. Sorry if those things bothers you. 
> 
> Many thanks to fiddleyoumust for telling me the pacing was okay and for giving me scene ideas, and a lifetime appreciation award to Fizzy for listening to me whine.

"The number of times you typically mention One Direction during a show has increased this week," Matt says as the last song fades to an end. He's smirking that infuriating, smug smirk he has for when he's taking the piss out of Nick. "You wouldn't be missing a certain young popstar while he's on his massive world tour, would you?"

Nick has no comeback for this because one, it's early and Nick was up late because timezones are stupid and two, it's true and they both know it. "Yes, it's true. I ache and I pine," he half, okay, not really, lies. "I must fill the void somehow. Why, Finchy, are you offering to soothe my broken heart in his absence?"

Matt rolls his eyes but plays along like Nick knew he would. "I suppose," he says, all put upon and exaggerated. "An additional couple of hours with you outside of work won't kill me, I hope."

"I reckon not," Nick says, then turns to the others in the room. "What about you lot? Anyone else willing to be there in my time of need?"

LMC looks down as she files her nails, Fiona stares fixedly at her computer, and Ian opens a folder. Nick feels extremely loved at the moment.

Matt sighs. "Surely someone else will take one for the team." He stares at LMC until she puts the nail file down.

"I could do drinks," she says, then adds, "occasionally."

Fiona says, “I suppose Nick is an entertaining dinner guest.”

"Ian?" Nick prompts.

"Um," Ian says, looking between the both of them. "I mean, most of my time these days is set aside for Aimee, and --"

"Aimee will understand," Nick says confidently, nodding. "She understands that a lad needs a night with other lads every so often."

Ian hesitates. "Right. Yes, well then."

"There, wonderful," Matt says. "We have a rota. And you have a record to play."

Nick huffs. "I was getting to it. I would have already but then you had to jump in and start this, which is not on this schedule sheet you gave me this morning, Fincham."

"Hush and play the record."

***

Contrary to popular belief and Matt Fincham, Nick does not need constant supervision or company. He is a twenty-eight year old grown man. He has lived on his own for many years. 

He sits on his sofa and stretches his legs the whole way across, reveling in the luxury of having it all to himself.

“I don’t need anyone around to tell me how brilliant I am,” Nick says to his phone, which has not received a single text all afternoon. “I already know.” 

***

For the past couple of months, Friday evenings have been Karaoke Fridays. Just because Harry left the country to go be a big, fancy popstar doesn’t mean that has changed. 

“All right, I’ll get us another round. What are we havin’?” Nick asks, collecting the empty glasses off the table. 

LMC stands, yawning, and Matt helps her into her coat. “I’ll pass. I can’t keep my bloody eyes open.” 

"But," Nick says, confused. "It's barely gone eleven." He and Harry usually stay out until the clock starts showing single digits again. 

“I’ve been up eighteen hours,” she says through another yawn. "Sleep now."

Nick frowns and takes out his phone, sending off a quick _my team is selfish and MEAN_ without thinking about where Harry is or what time it is. (He knows. Harry's in Massachusetts. It's six in the evening there.)

"An early Friday isn’t the enemy, Nicholas," says Matt, sliding his arms into his own coat. He pats the top of Nick's head as he walks by.

Nick glares at their backs until they’re out the door and he can’t see them anymore. Well, fine. He doesn’t need them. 

 

It isn’t until he’s back in his flat and down to his pants, trying to make a grilled cheese in a wok, that his phone beeps with a response. _Aww , I miss karaoke xx_

Nick rolls his eyes, and types out a quick reply. _you’re currently on a world tour where you get to SING on STAGE almost every night what are you even going on about?_

His grilled cheese is finished and only kind of burnt when Harry texts back. _not the same without you : ( x_

Nick stumbles over the careful deliberation of whether he should cut the sandwich in halves or fourths and sets the knife down so as to not slice his hand. _too true, young harold,_ he replies, _not much is_. There. That was fairly neutral. 

A string of happy looking emojis comes back almost immediately followed by a _miss you call you when i get a chance xxx!_ , and Nick picks up his grilled cheese and takes it into the lounge. His phone can just stay on the kitchen counter for the rest of the night. 

***

“I barely notice he’s gone at all,” Nick tells Annie over lunch a few days later. She is very pregnant and very glowy, but she is also looking at him like she doesn’t believe a word he’s saying, which is just mean. 

“Uh huh,” she says. 

“I don’t,” he insists, reaching for his mimosa. It’s empty and he’s not sure when that happened. “I am very busy, too, you know.” 

“Uh huh,” she says again, and nibbles on a chip. “Where is he right now?” 

“I don’t know, the Americas are vast and stuff,” Nick says, waving his hand. Harry’s in Pennsylvania; it’s 7 in the morning there. Nick can’t text him that early, even if he is probably awake being a very busy popstar bee. 

“Uh huh,” she says, but now Nick can see her lips trying to curve up around the edges. All of his friends are arseholes. How has he not realized this before?

“I need another mimosa. Shouldn’t there be a pitcher here? I thought I read the word 'unlimited' somewhere on the menu.” Nick raises his hand to get the server’s attention. “Do you want another, uh, whatever that is?” She shakes her head. “Right. You probably have to wee enough as it is.” 

Annie eats another chip before asking, “Have you spoken to him at all?” 

“Not really,” Nick says, not meeting her eyes. “I think he’s busy or summat.” 

“Too busy for you?” 

Nick sighs dramatically. “I know! Can you believe that?” 

“No,” she says seriously, and catches his eye. “I can’t.”

Nick is saved from replying by the server finally appearing at the table. 

***

Grocery shopping is really boring. Nick had forgotten that. 

“Right, milk, in the freezer section,” Nick mumbles to himself, scanning the list he grabbed off the fridge. He can do this. People do this all the time. 

“Orange juice, no pulp. Okay, that’s in -- wait, I love the pulp,” Nick says, frowning down at the list. He takes the pen and scribbles it out. “There, better.” 

He gets a little lost trying to find the spices. He’s not sure what one does with thyme and oregano and sage, but it’s on the list. He obviously had a plan at some point. 

“Ten bananas and two dozen eggs?” Nick reads disbelievingly. “Am I feeding the whole bloomin’ station?” Nick crosses them out, replacing the ten with three and the two with one. “And since when do I eat quinoa?” 

Hand hovering over a carton of eggs, he freezes. “I don’t eat quinoa,” he says to the eggs. The eggs don’t speak back. “Oh, bloody hell,” he mutters. 

He sets the shopping basket down in front of the eggs and leaves the store. 

***

“This is delicious, Finchy, really,” Nick says, cutting another forkful of lasagna. “Thanks for inviting me in and feeding me.” 

Matt sits across the table and sips his tea, legs crossed. “Yes, well, I couldn’t very well leave you out in the hall describing the smell all night,” he says. “There’s more than enough anyway.” 

“And it is delicious,” Nick repeats around his mouthful. He had been wandering the streets, trying to think of something to do this evening when he somehow ended up on Matt’s doorstep. It must have been destiny or fate or one of those things. “I think I’m going to hire you as my personal chef.” 

“Thanks," he says, “But I'll pass. Being in charge of one area of your life is more than enough for my nerves."

Nick swallows and then gives Matt a wide grin, teeth most likely covered in stuff. Matt rolls his eyes. 

It really is good, though. Nick hasn’t had a good, home cooked meal since Harry left. It’s been pot noodles and take away save the one time Fiona invited him over for tea, but that wasn’t as good as this. Nick isn’t going to tell anyone that, though, because she tried and it was edible, which is more than anyone can say about Nick’s culinary attempts. Maybe he'll finally take Harry up on his offer of real cooking lessons. 

"You're thinking," says Matt, clinking his cup against Nick’s wine glass. "Are you feeling alright?"

"You're a right laugh, Matt Fincham," Nick says dryly. "If you must know, I'm contemplating how to go about usurping your culinary prowess." 

Matt laughs, shaking his head knowingly. "It doesn't count if Harry's actually doing the cooking for you, you know. He may be alright with giving you the credit, but deep down you'll know you don't deserve it." 

"I would never," Nick says, affecting a deeply offended tone. It was one time and Nick _did_ make a batch of cookies; Harry just made them better while Nick was sleeping and sat them out for him to take instead. 

"Sure. And how is he by the way? Well, I hope." 

"He hasn't mentioned being poorly, but I imagine that'd be in the papers anyway if he were," Nick says.

"Where is he right now?" 

Matt's eyes are on the slice of lasagna he’s lifting from the pan, but Nick can feel them boring into him nonetheless. "Ohio," he answers honestly. There's no use in lying, not to Matt anyway. Matt has the password to his Google account and has seen a scaled down version of Harry's schedule merged onto his calendar.

“And how long until he’s back on our soil?” 

Nick would like to say he doesn’t know that answer off the top of his head, but that would be a dirty, dirty lie. He has the three days Harry will be home marked off as “busy,” and he glances at them briefly every time he logs on. “Three weeks, give or take.” 

Matt smiles sadly and makes an abortive move to touch Nick’s hand. Nick shoves another bite of lasagna into his mouth and chews with his mouth open. Matt rolls his eyes, slumping back in his seat. 

Good. Nick doesn’t want any Matt Fincham sympathy. 

***

Nick wakes up to a picture message and a series of texts that aren’t exactly English. They’re all from Harry. Nick isn’t surprised. 

The picture is blurry and there are ink smudges all around what is clearly a new tattoo, but for all that Nick squints, he honestly can’t make out what it is or where it’s at. Nick replies to the text on his way to the bathroom. _do i even want to know?_

The response is nearly immediate. _it’s a smile an inside the mouth is ‘ha’! get it??? xx_

Nick starts brushing his teeth and thinks. He’s trying to not let how stupid he thinks most of Harry’s tattoos are cloud his judgement while thinking of the hidden meaning most of them have. _everythings a laugh?_ he guesses.

_noooo it’sb y my elbow!_

Nick ignores how his reflection is clearly judging him and runs a hand through his hair, seeing how much work it’s going to need or if he should just beanie it. Then he looks at his elbow. There is absolutely nothing funny about it, except maybe some extra flabby skin, but that’s not -- Nick closes his eyes and shakes his head. _your funny bone?_ he types.

_yess! you DO get it!! xxxxx_

Nick looks at his reflection again but takes it in this time, lets it judge him, long and hard. Then he sends back _yes, very clever, young harold_

***

The front cover of The Sun this morning has a picture of Harry leaving an American club with some leggy blonde. He's guiding her through the paps with a hand on her hip. The text reads HARRY STYLES AND MYSTERY BLONDE LEAVE TOGETHER IN CAB. 

“How much of what The Sun prints is rubbish, d'you reckon? Ninety-nine percent? One hundred?” Nick says.

Matt sits down in front of his computer and boots it up. “Ninety-eight-point-three percent,” he says, yawning. “Why?” 

“No reason!” Nick says and crumples the paper, tossing it in the bin. He didn't buy it. He found it on his way in. “Hey, did you see that girl fall on her face on The Voice last night?” 

Matt shakes his head. "Liz and I --"

"That's lovely. Go to YouTube." 

Matt sighs. "Just send me the link."

***

Nick is carrying a gold, faux antique touch lamp under his arm and a slightly weathered grey fedora in his other hand when he sees Aimee and Ian through the restaurant glass. He was wondering where she was. She wasn’t answering his texts. 

"Sir, you can't bring --"

"I'll only be a moment!" Nick tells the lady behind the podium, and shuffles his way into the restaurant. "Aims! Ian!" 

Aimee looks up, eyes widening as she takes him in, and Ian rubs his forehead. "Hello, Nick," he says. 

"Hiya!" Nick sits his stuff down on the floor and steals a chair from a neighboring table. "Ohh, shrimp cocktail! Delicious," he says, lifting one from the cup and dipping it in the sauce. And here he was just wondering what he was going to do for dinner. “And how is this lovely evening treating the both of you?” 

Aimee folds her hands on the table and says, “It _was_ treating us very kindly.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Nick asks through a mouthful of shrimp. “What happened?” 

“Nick,” Aimee says, voice firm and serious, and Nick looks up. Aimee arches a brow and tilts her head toward Ian. 

Nick looks Ian over. He looks all right, if a bit tired, but aren’t they all. He’s wearing nice trousers, though, and his shirt isn’t wrinkled. Huh. And Aimee is in a dress that shows off her cleavage. Oh. _Oh_. “You’re on a date,” he says dumbly. 

“Bingo,” says Ian. 

Nick slowly lowers the other piece of shrimp he was about to eat back into the cup and licks his lips. He should have realized. “I should go.” 

“I’d appreciate that,” Aimee says, and pats his arm. “We’ll hang out tomorrow, okay?” 

Nick returns the chair to its rightful table and tucks the lamp back up under his arm, letting the fedora dangle from his fingers. “Yeah, sure,” he says. He was going to crash one of Henry’s afternoon fashion shoots but maybe he’ll just stay home and not bother anyone tomorrow. “Text first.” 

“I’ll see you at work,” says Ian. 

Nick turns toward him. “I’m watching you, Ian Chaloner,” he says, pointing at him with the fedora. “Don’t break my Aimee.” 

Aimee tosses a balled up napkin at him. 

 

The sun is setting just as Nick’s walking out of the restaurant, so he transfers the fedora to his other hand and takes a picture. He uploads it to Instagram with the caption _good night, london_ , and feels rather transparent. He doesn’t take it down, though. 

 

When he wakes the next morning, there’s a picture on his feed of a crowded parking lot, taken from somewhere up high. The caption reads _Sleep tight, Michigan x_. 

Nick’s proud of himself for being only four minutes late into work. 

***

_i’m coming over_ Nick texts to Pixie, hailing a taxi with his other hand. He has to be somewhere that’s not around Matt Fincham and his concerned looks and nosey questions. Nick is _fine_. 

_ok..._ , Pixie texts back , _but i’m not there :p_

Nick hesitates in the open door of the taxi and ignores the driver’s comments about getting in already. _where are you? i’ll go there_

_i’m on a date! i’d say come over after but i hope to be busy if you know what i mean ! :D xx_

Nick groans. _ugh fine bye_

The cabbie doesn’t look happy once Nick finally slides into the back seat, but Nick is not paying him to look happy. “Just take me home,” he says, slumping in the seat. “Home where I will be alone forever and ever because all my friends have lives without me because I accidentally made mine around a teenager who is now _gone_.” The cabbie blinks, and doesn’t move. “What?” Nick says.

“I need an address, mate.” 

Nick bangs his head against the window. 

***

There is only so much to do by one’s self, Nick is discovering. He finally braved the grocery store, he visited the antique shop, he went shopping without being worried all his clothes were going to be nicked once back in the flat, _and_ he slept an entire day without being woken up by someone sitting on his head. 

He lived the dream. The dream is dead. 

_everyone’s got lives and i’m not in any of them what is this??_ Nick texts Harry before he can overthink it. He quickly takes a picture of the corner of his coffee table. _i’ve a table that’s all i’ve got Harry_

He falls asleep on his sofa before Harry replies but when he wakes up, there’s another picture of Harry’s smiley face tattoo waiting for him with the caption _and me! :) be home soon xx_

***

Maybe Nick needs to branch out and make some more friends. 

Maybe he needs to get laid. 

That one seems more likely. He has plenty of friends. 

“I used to do this all the time,” Nick says, letting himself be dragged into the loo. “Like, all the time.” 

The bloke -- Blair? Blake? Blandy Boringson? -- locks the stall door and presses Nick against the wall. Nick falls back with an audible _oomph_. Bloke-whose-name-starts-with-a-B has a truly unnecessary amount of muscle. 

“You have so much... arm,” Nick says, getting a good grip of a bicep and squeezing. There’s no give. 

“That turn you on?” he asks, getting his mouth on Nick's neck. 

_Yes_ is on the tip of his tongue when a flash of Harry holding him down on the sofa runs through his head. Harry’s arms have gotten bigger, but they’re not big like this. Suddenly the arm in his hand feels excessive. “Mm,” he hums concommitally. 

Bloke-whose-name-starts-with-a-B takes that as encouragement and brings a hand down, flicking open Nick’s jeans. Nick closes his eyes and pushes into it. He can do this. 

The bloke drops to his knees, and his hand feels nice on Nick's cock. His mouth probably feels even better if Nick could just get into it instead of being slightly turned off every time he looks down and doesn't see messy, brown curls. 

"Yep, doing so good," Nick says, and then rolls his eyes at himself. What the hell. 

He comes thinking about how out of place Harry'd look on his knees at a place like this. 

Bugger.

***

“How do you feel about wine?” 

“Excuse me?” Rosalie, the receptionist downstairs at the BBC, asks. 

“Wine,” Nick repeats. “Red, white, alcoholic, and delicious. How do you feel about it?” He leans over the desk on his elbows, smiling as welcoming as he knows how. “There’s a new winery I’ve been dying to try, and I need a tasting partner.” 

“You want _me_ to go with you?” She asks, and Nick is a little offended at her disbelieving tone. He says goodbye to her every afternoon! They are _friends_!

“Yes, of course!” 

“Uh.” She blinks. “Well, uhm --” 

“Nick!” Matt yells from the top of the stairs. “Leave Rosalie alone. I said I’d go with you, just hold on.”

Nick turns back to Rosalie. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with?” 

She shakes her head. “Perhaps another time,” she says, and pats his hand. 

“Fine.” He walks over to the bottom of the stairs and cups his hands around his mouth. “Finchy! Finchy, I’m waiting! Finchy, I miss you already! Fiiiiinchy!” 

There’s a muffled “shut up!” from somewhere upstairs and then a thud. Nick grins. 

***

Nick knew his friends would eventually come around. No one can resist going out for drinks with him. He’s _hilarious_. 

“I think you’ve had enough,” Gillian says. 

She reaches for the shot in Nick’s left hand, but he has _not_ had enough, see, his reflexes are _fine_. “Whoa, hey,” he says, grabbing for the phone that was just lifted from his right hand while he was making sure his shot was safe. “Give that back.”

“You’ll thank me for this later,” Henry says. 

Nick downs his shot and then says, “I will not. Give that back. I was doing something.” 

“Drunk texting Harry, we know,” says Pixie. 

“I was _not_!” Nick says even though he’s fairly certain they’re right. He’s not _that_ drunk. 

Aimee looks over Henry’s shoulder and says, “I would read this to you, but I don’t think it’s in English.” 

It suddenly seems imperative that Nick finish that text, so he makes a grab for the phone across the table. Henry has a pretty good hold on it, though, entirely too used to Nick’s tricks, and it turns into a full on grapple across the high-top until it’s dropped in the center and a tinny voice is saying, “Hello? Nick?” 

Nick freezes, eyes wide at the phone. It wasn’t supposed to _call_ him. Jesus. “Hey,” he replies tentatively. 

“Is everything alright? I heard weird noises.” 

“Oh, that’s just Henry being weird,” Nick says, and picks up the phone, quickly taking it off speaker and turning his back to the others. “Anyway, hi, how the hell are ya?” 

“It’s, like, half eight and you woke me up from a nap. I’m doing ‘tired,’ I’d say.” 

Nick tsks. “Your life, so hard.” 

“And you’re drunk.” 

“Maaaaaybe,” he says, which is as good as a yes. 

“I’m a drunk dial, aren’t I?” 

“Technically you’re _Henry’s_. He took my phone.”

“Rather talk to you, if it’s all the same,” says Harry. 

Nick groans, and rubs a hand over his face. “You can’t just _say_ that, Harry.” He peeks around his shoulder and the others aren’t even pretending to be doing anything other than eavesdropping. Arseholes, all of them. “Nevermind.” 

“Oh, I mean, Henry’s great. I miss him a little, too. I could talk to him if you like?” 

“No, that’s not.” Nick stops. Maybe Henry was right to take his phone away. “I should probably let you go back to sleep. Or let you get ready for whatever. I mean, you’ve probably got extremely exciting evening plans.” 

Harry yawns, and Nick can picture him still in a nondescript hotel bed, shirtless and hair ruffled from sleep. Nick can picture it _so_ easily. “Nah, they can wait.” 

“Mmm,” Nick hums. “How’s the tour then, hmm?” 

“‘S fine. It’s a tour. Tell me ‘bout home,” Harry says, yawning again. 

“Home misses you, as usual. Fincham pines for Niall, and Aimee and Ian are sickening.” 

“I miss home,” says Harry. “I know I haven’t been gone that long, but.” He sighs. “Did you ever find out if your schedule lines up with mine any yet?” 

It does. It’s a short window and Nick would be jetlagged for the whole trip and probably have to miss one day of the show, but it’s doable. Harry will be back home for a little bit before then, though, so Nick’s trying to convince himself that’ll be enough. 

“I’ve passed it along,” he says instead. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know.” 

“Okay,” says Harry through yet another yawn. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Nick warns. “That’s Zayn’s department.” 

“Maybe Zayn’s rubbing off on me.” 

“Zayn’s rubbing one off beside you, you say? Shall we turn this into a video chat then?” 

“Shut up,” Harry laughs. “I have to go, but I don’t want to.” 

“Don’t be late on my account.”

“Your account is the only --” 

“Harry, are you read -- What are you doing? Why aren’t you dressed? Are you still in _bed_?” 

Nick laughs. He’d recognize the voice of a disgruntled Louis Tomlinson anywhere. “I’ve gotten you in trouble from a few thousands kilometers away, I see.” 

“Is that Grimshaw?” 

“I have to go,” Harry says. 

“I heard. Talk to you later, Harry.” 

“Bye, Grimmy.” 

When Nick turns back around, the others are staring at their drinks. Pixie slides hers over to him and Aimee says, “I’ll get more shots.” 

“Thanks,” says Nick, plopping down on the stool. 

Henry moves his stool closer and tips his head over onto Nick’s shoulder. Nick tips his head over on top of Henry’s and waits for the next round of shots. 

***

“Stop touching stuff. You’re doing it wrong,” Nick says, smacking a sock out of Matt’s hand. 

“I’m bored. I can at least help you fold,” Matt says. “And how do you fold a sock wrong? It’s a sock.” 

Nick picks up two socks and lays them out on top of each other, folding them in three sections. “Like that. That’s how Harry does it.” 

“Oh, well,” Matt say, rolling his eyes, “if that’s how _Harry_ does it.” 

Nick huffs and throws a pair of dirty pants at him. “I said you didn’t have to help! I gave you wine! Just sit there and look pretty!” 

Matt holds his hands up in surrender and settles back in the beanbag chair that is specifically for the laundry room. The silence lasts for maybe a minute. “When’s the last time you did laundry anyway? I haven’t seen that shirt for weeks.” 

Nick drops the shirt and says, “I’ve been _busy_.”

Matt gives him a highly judgemental look. “Too busy to do laundry?” 

“Yes!” 

There’s a moment’s pause before Matt says, voice certain and knowing, “You haven’t done laundry since Harry left, have you.” 

“I’ve been _busy_ ,” Nick repeats.

Matt takes a sip of wine and then leans forward. Nick sighs. Finchy lecture mode has been activated. 

“Look, I know that you miss him and his absence has been tough on you -- “

“It has not! I’ve barely noticed at all.” 

“ --but you’ve got to take care of yourself. When Liz is away --”

“Me and Haz are not you and Liz.” 

“ -- I do my own laundry _and_ I cook my own meals because --”

“Urgh, shut up.” Nick throws a shirt and hits Matt in the face. “I think you should go open the other bottle of wine while I call Alice. I’m not fit to do this.” He holds up a pair of pink socks. “These used to be white.” 

Matt shakes his head. “I can’t believe Harry washes your clothes.”

“Well, I can’t believe Liz sleeps with you, so. There.” Nick sticks his tongue out. 

“Yes, very mature, Nicholas.” 

***

“It’s just you and me tonight, Puppy,” Nick says, patting the sofa cushion for her to jump up. “Let’s see what’s on the telly.”

Nothing is what is on the telly. He’s just about to resort to turning on an actual _film_ , and probably fall asleep, when his phone rings. “Oh, look, Puppy, it’s Harold. He hasn’t forgotten about us.” Nick clicks “accept” on the screen and says, “Good evening, jet setting popstar.” 

“Hiiii. Fincham says you're driving him mad.” 

"Well, it is a weekday," Nick replies smoothly.

"He says you're insufferable."

"I am my average amount of sufferable, thanks very.” Nick scratches behind Puppy’s ears. Harry's voice does _nothing_ to Nick's insides. “Did you just call to relay Fincham's messages or was there another reason?"

"I dunno," Harry says, and Nick can hear the smile distorting his voice. “I had a few minutes.” 

“And you thought to call me? Oh, Harry, I feel so special. Truly.” 

“Shut up,” says Harry. “I heard you maybe missed me.” 

Nick hmms. “Mm, no, don't think so."

“Right, of course not.” Harry coughs, and Nick wishes Harry were there to cough on _him._ Nick shakes his head. Harry's absence is doing his head in.

"I think everyone's just about forgot about you, to be honest," Nick lies. 

"Oh. Well, it's a good thing I'll be home in eight days, then," he says. "Eight-ish, schedule's a bit fuzzy.”

“That’s rather soon, Harold,” Nick says. “Not sure if I can fit you in by then.” 

Harry laughs. “I’m confident you’ll find time somewhere. So much so that I already told them to drop me off at yours when we get back."

"Oh, did you," Nick says, fighting back a smile and failing. He picks at a loose thread in the sofa. "You've the key, yeah?"

"With my personals, yeah," Harry says. "Or with Paul, but same thing."

"Good ol' Paul."

"Yes," Harry says. "Anyway, I should probably call my mum. It's been days and I miss her voice." 

Nick sets Puppy down on the floor and then flings himself face down across the sofa. "Okay." 

"Bye, Nick. See you soon."

"Bye, Harry." 

***

“What are you doing?” Aimee asks, poking her head into Nick’s bathroom. 

Nick huffs a breath, trying to blow his wilting quiff off his forehead, and points at a spot on the tub with his yellow rubber gloved hand. “There’s a spot. I think it’s mold.” 

Aimee looks dubious as she peers down into the tub. “I don’t see anything.” 

Nick refrains from calling her a name and scrubs at the spot harder, grunting. “It’s there,” he says, glaring at the sponge. “And it’s got to go.” 

Aimee puts the seat down and carefully sits on the lid of the toilet. “Have you finally cracked?” she asks, leaning forward. “Is that what this is?”

“If you’re staying, I have more sponges,” Nick says. 

“Because that’s what this looks like.” 

Nick looks up, taking Aimee in for the first time. She’s in skintight, pale green jeans and an orange, billowy top. He blinks. “You can’t scrub mold in that outfit.” 

“No,” she says slowly. “We’re going out.” 

Nick drops the sponge. “I can’t go out, Aimee!” he says, raising his voice. She leans back, startled. “Have you seen the state of my oven? I have to - to - bleach it or something! And don’t even get my started on the garden! I was watching that garden show earlier and he said that proper gardens have trees. So I have to plant a tree.” 

Aimee’s silent for a long moment before she stands, pulling her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll be right back.” 

Nick shrugs, and goes back to scrubbing the spot. He’s almost got it. It’s a fighter, but this is Nick’s bathroom and he will win. 

***

“Let’s go to the pub, Finchy. Just you and me.” 

Matt keeps scrolling through his Tumblr tag. “It’s ten in the morning.”

Nick bounces in place next to Matt’s desk. Yes, he is aware of what time it is. “That just means it won’t be crowded!” 

“I’m working.” 

“You’re playing on Tumblr!” 

“For work,” says Matt, quickly clicking out of something. 

“You know,” Nick says, sitting on the edge of the desk, “I bet Niall off One Direction goes to the pub at ten a.m.”

Matt takes his eyes off the computer screen long enough to give Nick a look. “And as you have said numerous times, I am not Niall.”

Nick huffs. He hates when things he’s said are used against him. “Fine. I’ll go to the pub by myself.” 

“Okay, have fun,” Matt says, already back to scrolling through Tumblr. 

“I’ll remember this, Finchy,” Nick says, walking backwards out of the room, eyes on the back of Matt’s head in case he were to turn around. 

In the hall, he checks his phone. Again. Three hours. Three hours until Harry’s flight lands. Three hours until he lands, and four-ish hours until he’s in Nick’s flat: alive and real and in the flesh. 

Nick feels like he might be sick. 

“Tina!” he yells, heading toward the news booth. “Tina!” 

“What?” she yells back, and Nick halts, changing direction. She’s in the kitchenette, not her booth. 

“Tina, the most beautiful person here and my favorite news person ever,” Nick says, entering the kitchenette. 

“Oh, dear,” she says, but she’s smiling. “What do you want?” 

“That hurts, Tina,” Nick says. “And here I came to ask you to lunch.” 

“Oh, that’s --” Tina looks conflicted. “That’s so nice of you, Nick, but --”

“Are you turning me down, Tina Daheley?” Nick fake sniffles and checks his phone again. He probably can’t drag this out for another three hours. “I’ll cry.” 

“You will not,” Tina says. “Will you?” 

“I might,” Nick says. 

“Please don’t,” she says, and stands, tucking a newspaper under her arm. “I have a lot of work to do before I can leave.” 

Nick waits until she’s just barely out of the door before yelling, “This is why people think we have beef, Tina!” 

***

Turns out, most people work between the hours of eleven a.m. and three p.m. and therefore cannot entertain Nick. 

Someone really ought to do something about that. 

***

Nick looks at the clock on the wall and keeps stroking Puppy’s fur. His bum’s gone numb from how long he’s been sat on the sofa. “Half four, Puppy, maybe he’s not coming after all,” Nick says, then a moment later he hears the lock on his door being fiddled with. Nick sighs _not_ fondly. Harry can never remember to lift up on the doorknob before inserting the key. “Lift _up_ , Harold, and try again,” he yells.

There’s a muffled “bah” and then the door is opening and there’s Harry. Real, live, actual Harry Styles, in Nick’s flat once more. 

He looks tired, and he’s got a rucksack strapped to his back and a messenger bag slung across his chest. There’s also a flyer for a Thai restaurant dangling from his fingers. 

Nick tries to keep his face blank and uninterested. It’s just Harry Styles. “How was the flight?” 

“Long,” says Harry. He drops his bags off under the coat-rack and tosses the menu at Nick as he comes around to join him on the sofa. “Order me food. I’m hungry.” He picks Nick’s phone up off the coffee table and tosses it at him, and then lifts Nick’s arm, sliding in underneath it. “Now, not tomorrow.” 

“Yes, bossy,” Nick says, and rings the number on the flyer. He squeezes Harry in a hug of sorts because that’s what he’d usually do, right? Nick thinks it is. 

Harry hugs him back and listens as Nick orders but doesn’t make any effort to offer input. Fine, he’ll just have to deal with whatever Nick chooses. He purposefully doesn’t order Harry’s favorite. 

“I hate you,” Harry says but there’s no heat behind it. “Also, hi.” 

Nick gives in and tousles Harry’s already untidy curls. Harry tilts his head into it like he always does and makes that rumbly noise Nick refers to as purring. He’s missed him _so_ much. “Hiya, Harold.” 

“You smell nice and this sofa is more comfortable than any hotel bed and I missed the rain,” Harry mumbles, face pressed into Nick’s chest. 

Nick’s stomach feels like it’s tying itself into knots. “Quite the confession,” he says.

“Not really,” Harry says but doesn’t elaborate. “Do you have to go out tonight? Can we stay in, right here?” 

Nick has no plans for tonight because literally everyone he’d hang out with knows that Harry got in today. He hasn’t gotten a single text message since two p.m. “I think the sofa might get a bit uncomfortable.” 

“True. Let’s lay on your bed then.” 

“You’re going to fall asleep on me, aren’t you, Styles?” 

“Mhmm,” Harry hums, and rubs his nose against Nick’s chest. One of his hands is resting on Nick’s stomach and it’s driving Nick mad, but he can’t say anything because it shouldn't bother him. 

"Come on, up we go." Nick pulls Harry off the sofa and then half carries, half drags him to bed. "I'll just put your food in the fridge when it gets here then?"

"'Kay." Harry peels his jeans off and leaves them on the floor, and then tugs Nick into bed with him. "Want you to talk," he slurs, sleep seeping into his words. "Tell me everything I missed. Start at the beginning and don't leave anything out."

"I'll try," Nick says, humoring him. 

Harry's asleep moments after his head hits the pillow. 

***

Nick must have dozed off after watching telly for a bit because he wakes to Harry eating take-away beside him on the bed and no light coming through his windows. "Time is it?" 

"Almost midnight," Harry says. "There's nothing on." 

"Yeah," Nick says, still processing. Harry's here. He didn't dream it. 

"I missed watching you sleep, did you know that?" Harry laughs, and sticks his tongue out, opening wide for a forkful of noodle. It's still just as strange as ever, but. 

"You what?" 

"Nothing." Harry shakes his head. "I mean." He sets the container on the nightstand and then turns back. "I missed you. It's stupid how much." 

Nick's stomach is doing somersaults as he pushes himself up. He’s not awake enough for this. "I missed you too." 

"No," Harry says, scooting closer, putting a hand on Nick's chest. He looks determined. "I _really_ missed you. I missed you the most." 

"Yeah?" Nick's heart's practically beating out of his chest. He thinks Harry might be able to feel it. 

Harry nods. "We've been a bit stupid, I think," he says, and his fingers twist, balling up Nick's shirt. 

"Never," Nick says, more out of reflex than anything. "I am full of only great --"

"Shh," Harry says, and presses their mouths together. 

Nick squeaks in surprise, tensing for a moment before kissing back. It's soft and chaste and so very different from the handful of drunken kisses they've shared. It's exactly what's been missing. Nick wants more. So much more.

"I missed you too," Nick says as Harry pulls back. "So much. In case you hadn't caught that." 

"I know," Harry says, grinning. His lips are a little wet. "I might have had an inside source." 

"Oh, really? And who would that be?" 

Harry cards his fingers through Nick's fringe. "Fincham." A beat later. "And a bit of Aimee. Some Henry. Pixie texted a couple times." 

Nick flops back on the mattress and sighs. He really needs new friends. "I hate them all." 

"I don't," Harry says, rolling over, propping himself on his elbows above Nick. "I appreciated their intel." 

"You've been watching silly spy films with Liam and Louis, haven't you?" 

"Maybe." Harry noses up Nick's jaw, nips his ear. 

Nick turns his head a fraction and their lips slot together again, a slow give and take that Nick feels all the way to his toes. He gets a handful of Harry’s curls and tugs, gently, feels rather than hears his moan and licks deep inside, already breathing heavily. Fuck, Harry is _here_ and _kissing him_.

Harry’s fingers stumble over the button on Nick’s jeans as they kiss, so Nick reaches down to help, not realizing what he’s doing until Harry’s got his jeans and pants tugged down his thighs. He’s already more than halfway hard and it should be embarrassing -- all they were doing was kissing -- but it’s not. He’s always on the verge of getting hard whenever Harry’s around.

“Tell me to stop if you don’t want this,” Harry says, and Nick’s about to ask _don’t want what?_ when he feels Harry’s mouth on him. 

“Oh, god, _Harry_ ,” Nick gasps, legs coming up around Harry’s ears. “Fuck.” 

Harry laughs around Nick’s cock and Nick would smack him but then he might stop and that would be _worse_ , so he lets it be, throws an arm over his eyes and arches his back. _fuck fuck fuck_. Harry’s mouth is _perfect_ for this, Nick’s always said and it’s _true_. He’s going to think of this whenever he looks at Harry now. Well. More so than before. 

Harry sucks hard at the head and strokes down the shaft languidly, thumb dipping down to press behind Nick’s balls and Nick whines, spreading his legs. He’s so hot, overheated in his t-shirt, and a little confused how he got here. He was _sleeping_ minutes ago and Harry wasn’t even in the country yesterday. 

Harry does something with his tongue and Nick tenses, comes with a pained gasp, and Harry swallows around him, doesn’t pull off until Nick flaps his hands and pushes on his shoulder. 

Harry blinks up at him, lips red and wet and swollen, and his voice is rough when he asks, “Was that okay?” 

Oh, god. Nick groans and tosses a pillow at him, missing by a mile. “Shut up. You did not just ask that.” 

Harry laughs like that's the funniest thing ever and then flops onto his back beside Nick. He gives Nick a quick once over and then shoves his pants down, pulling on his cock. 

"Wait, no, I'll do that," Nick says, panicked. He is smoother than this, he swears. He forgot his jeans and pants were still around his thighs and struggles to roll over, eventually shoving them down and flailing his foot when they get caught around the ankle. 

"It's okay," Harry pants, not looking at him. "I know I took a lot out of you and at your age --" 

Nick slaps Harry’s hand away. "Finish that sentence and I will shove you out of my bed, Styles," 

Harry cracks one eye open and grins. 

Nick is so much more fucked than he thought. 

***

"You're awfully cheery at half six of a Monday morning," Matt says as soon as the intro music fades.

Nick gives Matt a look that tells him he knows exactly what he's doing. "Well, if you must know, Fincham," he says, fading the music in and out, "I had a full eight hours last night. Did wonders for me."

"Sleep, huh?" Matt laughs. "Sure that was all it was?"

Nick gasps, playing it up for the radio. "Fincham! This is so unlike you! I love it."

"Merely asking the hard-hitting questions," he says, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, that's you, rule breaker," Nick says. "Do you know what we're going to do now, though?"

" Play a record?"

"You are right, Matt Fincham! We're playing a record. Good morning, Great Britain! Enjoy a little One Direction to get you started." 

 

END


End file.
